


Lonely

by yeaka



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-07
Updated: 2013-01-07
Packaged: 2017-11-24 00:18:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/628125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy celebrates Christmas with family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: This isn’t properly British.

Percy stares at the jug of eggnog, wondering vaguely how much rum is in it.

Probably too much. He shuts the fridge again and fishes a glass out of the cupboards. He goes to the sink and has water. There’s still work to do—his head should be clear.

He pads back to the makeshift study. It’s the smaller bedroom of the small apartment, crowded up by a desk with a lamp, a dustbin, and a file cabinet. The window is firmly shut, and snow is lining up on the outside sill. Percy glances at it suspiciously, checking that his heat-sealing charm is intact. He’s sure he did it right to all of the windows and the door. But he still feels cold and wraps his arms around his sweater.

He walks over to the desk, pulls out his chair, sits down, and pulls his papers forward. A new broom order for the Auror department. It’s incorrectly dated—Percy fixes that and checks that the signatures are correct, before shuffling it to the bottom of the pile. The next order—new cauldrons—Percy deems superfluous but examines anyway. It’s missing the stamp of the treasury. The next two orders are intact, and when Percy reaches the fifth, he pushes away from his desk—chair spinning on its wheels, it hits the cabinet. He pulls out two manila folders—one to place back at the Ministry for proper filing of December’s purchases and one for readdressing. It drives Percy crazy sometimes how inefficient many of his co-workers are. It’s a good thing he’s between them and the Minister, or the whole place would fall apart.

Normally, Percy does this at the office. But the office is closed, because for some inane reason he can’t fathom, the Ministry isn’t open on Christmas. Reports still happen, however, so Percy gladly volunteered to take them home. It’s not like he has anything better to do anyway. He pushes up his horn-rimmed glasses and keeps reading.

When he’s about three-quarters of the way through his pile, a burst of loud caroling erupts outside the window, and Percy nearly jumps in his chair. He’s several stories up and wasn’t expecting that sort of thing. But then, Percy rarely expects yuletide greetings. They’re just not on his radar. Without looking away from his desk, Percy pulls his wand out of his pocket and flicks it in the general direction of the window, casting a noise-muffling spell. It’s bad enough he has to hear the obnoxious, clichéd Christmas CDs the neighbours are playing every time he opens the hall door, without people on the street bothering him too.

When Percy finally finishes his reports, it’s nearly dark outside. Not because it’s actually that late, but because it’s December, and the sun’s finicky like that. Percy gets out of his chair, stretches his stiff limbs, and pulls down the curtains. He brushes off his crinkled jeans. Well, that killed a few hours.

Percy wanders back into the kitchen, which is really more of a kitchenette, separated from the living room by a small counter. The clock stove isn’t cooperating, and he glances at the fridge. Still not late enough to drown his sorrows in eggnog, or simply go to bed. Well, he could go to bed. But then he’d mess up his sleep cycle, and Percy’s a man of schedules. He glances over his shoulder at the muggle television, propped up against the wall. He could watch television.

But it would probably just be Christmas specials. Movies of people spending time with their families. Percy’s heart constricts. It wasn’t his idea to buy the television anyway.

He could read. He hasn’t read in awhile—it makes him feel oddly unproductive and therefore guilty. Does he have anything he hasn’t read? Probably not. Percy tends to read things on the way back from the bookstore and be done before the sun sets.

He could make food. He isn’t really hungry, mostly because his stomach has that sort of sad, tingling feeling it always gets when he’s too alone, and it’s unsettling. He should still probably ingest some nutrition, though. What do people eat on Christmas? Turkey? It’s just him. That’s too pathetic to bother with making a turkey.

There’s leftover pasta in the fridge, crammed into a square, plastic container. Percy opens it and wonders vaguely if it’d be more pathetic to eat cold pasta or to bother reheating such a small, unappetizing dish. Percy sniffs and tells himself not to be lazy. He casts a slow heating charm and gets out a plate, a fork, and a knife. Just because no one’s around to witness his shame doesn’t mean he has to eat like a slob.

Percy sits at the round dining table in the corner of the living room. This is just a transitional place for the time being, but it still bothers him how cramped it is. He hit his tolerance level for poverty when he left the Burrow. He wants a real house, with a real study, and a separate kitchen. He eats his pasta in silence, alternatively finding it bland and over-seasoned.

It takes a while. His stomach doesn’t want food, and he picks at his plate. It’s too little to bother putting back; he better just eat it. When it’s all done, he walks back to the sink and sets the dishes to washing themselves. He levitates the dishcloth over them, then levitates them back to the cupboards. His stomach’s still upset. Or maybe he’s just upset.

Well, no. It’s just Christmas.

Percy’s always alone on Christmas.

Even when he was at the Burrow, he was alone, in a sea of people that looked just like him, but couldn’t speak his language.

It’s better this way, he tells himself, as he gets the broom out of the hallway closet and begins to manually sweep the laminate floors. The one time Ron ever visited (wanting to ‘borrow’ money) he thought they were real hardwood. Ron’s an idiot.

Percy’s better off alone. He can get actual work done this way. Like cleaning his apartment and sorting Ministry documents. He even sweeps under the rug in front of the fireplace and pushes the couch out of the way to get underneath it. The thin, sparsely decorated Christmas tree—that was in no way shape or form Percy’s idea—has a few gifts underneath, which he lifts up to sweep under. He levitates the dust pile into the garbage. Then he gets a rag and dusts around the living room: atop the kitchenette cabinets, along the dining table, across the mantelpiece and under the various Christmas cards with short, impersonal notes inside, many of which have his name misspelled. ‘Percy’ isn’t a terribly difficult name to remember. Percy, however, is apparently a terribly difficult _person_ to remember. 

When he runs out of things to clean, he puts away the cleaning supplies and stares at his closet. He does some minor reorganizing. Shortly into it, he gets sick of the flashing Christmas lights shining through the glass next to the front door and decides he can’t stand to be in the hallway any longer. He puts everything back and walks back to the living room. He glances at the Christmas cards and the framed pictures behind them on the mantle, full of shining smiles that feel out of reach. He walks to the kitchenette, getting pushed further and further back into his apartment.

He’ll drink a bunch of possibly-spiked eggnog and pass out an hour early. Fuck it. That’s not an attitude Percy often adopts, but fuck it. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas and he’s alone. He should be alone. He’s Percy and maybe he deserves it; he is, after all, the common factor in everyone hating him. He doesn’t even have particularly strong bonds with his co-workers: the people he oddly spends the most time with. He’s alone and he’s sick of being conscious of that.

Percy takes out the jug and a rather large mug and fills it almost to the brim. He lifts it to his lips and takes a large sip, whilst turning to head back to the living room.

“BOO!”

“GAHHH!” Percy promptly drops the mug, which shatters into a million pieces, and splashes the thick liquid everywhere.

Percy’s a shaking mess as Oliver mutters, “Ack, sorry!” and scrambles to get out his wand. He tries haphazardly to sew the ceramic back together, and it takes Percy a second to get his bearings.

Then he hisses, “Oliver!” in a very scolding tone. He gets out his own wand and starts collecting all the little pieces Oliver’s missing, careful not to move lest he step on any. Oliver switches to drying up the eggnog, which has soaked through Percy’s sweater and all down his jeans. When they’re dry again and the mug’s fixed (thank Merlin for wizardry) Percy grumbles, “What’re you doing here? You’re supposed to be with your family.”

Oliver raises a charming eyebrow and crosses his arms. He leans casually against the counter as he talks, looking irritatingly handsome in his own dark denim and red sweater. “So are you.”

Percy flushes.

Oliver waits.

Percy looks down at his feet and scratches the back of his head. He never likes lying to Oliver. But sometimes it’s necessary. “I just...” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to worry you...”

“My parents invited you,” Oliver replies, voice softer and no longer coy. When Percy looks up, Oliver’s frowning. “You didn’t need to stay here alone—you could’ve come with me.”

Percy returns the frown but doesn’t say anything. If he says he’s a bother, Oliver will only say he isn’t. If he says no one likes him, or wants him around, Oliver will only say that’s not true. If he says he’s always lonely on Christmas, that’s just the way it is, Oliver will only say, ‘not anymore.’

Instead, they have this conversation silently. Oliver watches him and Percy dares him to say any of it out loud. They’re only half a meter apart, and with a sigh, Oliver reaches out an arm, tugging at the belt loop of Percy’s jeans. “C’mere.”

Percy shuffles closer, and Oliver’s arms envelope him in a sudden, warm embrace, holding Percy just like he always does. Percy gets a burst of endorphins, and pride forms in the pit of his stomach. How he ever landed such a man, he’s still no idea. Oliver’s strong arms promise him all the safety, security, and love he never had before, and he feels like his glasses are fogging up. His blush hides his freckles, and he smiles in spite of himself, and he holds tightly onto Oliver’s shoulders.

Without pulling back, Oliver changes the subject to, “Did you like my eggnog?” He doesn’t let go.

“You ruined it before I could try some,” Percy snaps, although he remains grinning. He closes his eyes and rests his head on Oliver’s shoulder, as the hug continues to last far longer than a normal one would. “Is it loaded with rum?”

“Naturally,” Oliver chuckles, stroking Percy’s back. “You know drunk Percy is my favourite thing to unwrap.”

“Your jokes are terrible.”

“Your hair smells nice.”

Percy opens his eyes specifically to roll them and assumes, “You already had some at your parents’, didn’t you?”

“Mhm.” Then he suddenly lets go of Percy, pulling back, though only half a step. Percy tries not to look as putout by the movement as he is. “By the way, my parents got me a new broom!”

Percy blinks. “Doesn’t Puddlemore United supply you with the latest models?”

Oliver shrugs, “Well, they didn’t know that.”

“Oh. ...Well, hopefully they kept the receipt and you can take it back.”

Oliver scoffs, “Definitely not.”

Percy raises an eyebrow. “What are you going to do with two brooms?”

“Make you ride one.”

Percy gives him a very level look. “Oliver, you know I’m terrible at Quidditch.”

“Perce, you know I don’t care. You have no idea what the sight of you on a broom does to me.” And he looks dreamily off in the distance, as though picture it right there. Percy blushes harder, wondering again how he ever managed to get himself into this. Coming back down to Earth, Oliver says jovially, “Besides, you said you’d ride with me next practice.”

Percy scowls. “I said I’d ride _you_ —and you asked me during sex; that isn’t far.”

Grinning mischievously, Oliver leans forward to peck Percy’s cheek. “But you’re so wonderfully agreeable during sex.” He steps a bit closer to kiss Percy’s other cheek, and then Percy’s nose. Percy scrunches it up and tries not to grin like a schoolgirl under the attention. Oliver’s voice falls an octave to huskily growl, “I could get you to agree to anything when we’re in bed...” He’s nibbling Percy’s ear as he says this, one arm around Percy’s waist, and Percy’s trying not to melt. Oliver’s hard, Keeper’s body presses into him, and suddenly the apartment doesn’t seem so cold. “I should show you, maybe we should go right now...” He’s pressing harder into Percy, as he trails messy kisses all down Percy’s neck, and Percy moans and tilts his head to the side to give more room.

“Wh-what about your parents?” he mumbles, trying desperately to hold onto his head. He always tries to stay coherent as long as possible, but Oliver always makes that a challenge.

“I left early,” Oliver answers quickly, between biting and sucking, marking Percy like a teenager. Percy lets him, and lets Oliver step around him and press him back into the counter. “Told them I had to get home and bang you.”

Percy grunts as Oliver starts grinding their hips slowly together. “Y-you... didn’t...”

Oliver pulls back to smirk, “You’re so cute when you blush.” He kisses Percy’s lips and takes off Percy’s glasses, to place them gently across on the far counter. A wise precaution—Oliver has a way of being impulsive and getting them in positions that aren’t glasses-friendly. When he’s back, he presses quick, frantic kisses into Percy’s mouth, and mumbles between them, “Of course I didn’t. I told them I had to be with my new family.”

Percy’s being kissed too much to express what that does to him.

His chest fills up, like it always does with Oliver. His heart beats a little faster and his breath comes a little quicker. He feels warm all over, and his head’s a bit dizzy, and everything’s _right_ and content.

Oliver picks him up so fast that he makes a rather undignified squeaking noise, head reeling from the rush of blood. He wraps his arms tighter around Oliver’s shoulders, Oliver with one arm under his back and one behind the back of his knees: bride-style. Oliver carries Percy easily into the living room, like he weighs nothing. Then Oliver deposits Percy lovingly on the couch and kisses him _hard._

“Not the bed?” Percy muses throatily, as Oliver straightens back up and walks off. Percy lies down and gets comfortable in the meantime, assuming Oliver will come back. He hears the fridge open.

“It’s more romantic in front of the fireplace—can you light it?” There’s a distinct rustling sound, like glasses clinking, then something pouring. Percy gets his wand back out and absently rearranges the furniture—the coffee table further back on the rug, (just in case they fall into it, which is never good, but often happens) the television stand off to the side, and the presents more neatly stacked, while he’s at it. Then he lights the fireplace, setting it to a dim, wavering height. He settles back down and watches the flames lick languidly at the logs already placed inside.

In the short span of maybe ten minutes, Percy’s whole night has turned around. He’s glowing when Oliver gets back, and Oliver gestures for him to be still. Percy stays still. Oliver places two eggnog-filled mugs on the coffee table with Percy’s glasses besides them.

“For when we’re done,” he says, moving to the couch. Percy holds his arms up and open invitingly, and Oliver climbs on top of him with the usual rather sizeable grin. He settles his entire body atop Percy’s—his broader shoulders, his muscled chest, his stronger legs. He kisses Percy gently but slips his tongue out to say he wants _more_.

Percy’s eyes flutter closed, and he parts his lips, tilting his head obediently. His fingers slide up to run over Oliver’s shoulders—one of his sexiest features, in Percy’s opinion. But then, everything about Oliver is _sexy_. From his short hair, to his six-pack, to his accent. Oliver looks good in everything and entirely too delectable in his Quidditch uniform. Although, even better in nothing. He tastes bitter and like rum, and Percy loves all of it. Oliver smells thick and masculine, a bit like fading cologne and a bit like the field. His kiss with Percy gets deeper and deeper, until they’re passionately making out like they did in Hogwarts. But Oliver always does that to Percy—reducing him to a bristling bundle of yearning and pleasure. He feels foolish for hating Christmas now.

He should’ve known Oliver wouldn’t leave him. He should’ve known he could trust Oliver to remember him, to come back to him, to be there for him when no one else is. Percy’s never been very good at trusting others. But then, he’s never felt loved unconditionally.

Oliver kisses like he loves Percy, like he wants nothing but Percy, like this kiss is everything. Percy only breaks it when he has to, because Oliver is touching his stomach and it’s making him moan. Oliver grins against him and moves to kiss his jaw while he fiddles with the hem of Percy’s sweater. “I wish you’d have come with me,” Oliver mumbles, starting to bunch up Percy’s sweater, his hot fingers against Percy’s cool stomach.

Percy tilts his head back in another gasp as Oliver’s talented fingers find his nipples. “That’s n... nice of you, ah, but...” But Oliver reduces him to a shivering cluster of ecstasy, unable to form proper sentences.

“But nothing,” Oliver practically purrs. When his voice drops dangerously low like this, Percy doesn’t stand a chance. He radiates an erotic energy that washes all over Percy’s body, from his head to his toes, making him arch and want more. Oliver palms his nipples tantalizingly and nips at his neck again, and Percy just holds on. Sometimes it’s all he can do. “My parents love you, you know.” Oliver licks up Percy’s jaw, and Percy scrunches his eyes closed as though he’s opposed to it. “Why wouldn’t they? You’re so loveable...”

Percy’s automatic chuckle dies off in a groan as Oliver tugs his nipples, rubbing them to hardness. “O-Oliver, hush...”

“No,” Oliver growls, kissing him hard. His hands slip back down Percy’s stomach as he devours Percy’s mouth, grinding the back of his head into the couch. He’s rutting gently against Percy the whole time, rocking him periodically forward, just slowly, just sensually. When they part, Percy feels like his lips are swollen, and Oliver kisses the other side of his neck, leaving more marks, and making Percy move his head again. “I’m serious, Perce.” He’s now scrunching up Percy’s sweater between them, shoving it up his chest, until it gets caught under his armpits. Percy groans at the rough texture of Oliver’s sweater against his skin. “You’re charming, and smart, and you’re _beautiful_.” Percy frowns and would protest, if Oliver didn’t stifle it so fast, lips back to his mouth like they never left. Oliver kisses Percy into submission, only to whisper into the side of his lips, “You’re _everything_ to me. You know that, don’t you?”

If Percy were more in control of his faculties, he’d sharply quip, ‘I thought Quidditch was,’ but he can’t. His head’s too fogged up with lust, and his eyes might be prickling. He doesn’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve this. His own family doesn’t love him, and Oliver shouldn’t either. Oliver is a professional Quidditch star, and rich, and charming, and handsome, and pleasant, and wonderful, and all the many things that Percy isn’t. The only thing they have in common is their drive and their focus, and the ying-yang way their bodies fit together.

Percy still cracks, all over. When Oliver pulls up enough to see what he’s doing, unhooking Percy’s belt, Percy scrunches up Oliver’s sweater. Oliver lets go long enough for Percy to tug it over his head and toss it across the back of the couch. Not on the other side, obviously—wouldn’t want to spill the eggnog. The celebration eggnog, which Percy will use to drown the overwhelming feeling of being wanted, something he still can’t handle.

Percy cracks harder and mumbles, “I missed you,” with a bit of a pout, and so much longing in his voice. Oliver grins bright as a candle and pulls Percy’s belt right out of his jeans, all in one tug.

It joins the sweater. Percy runs his hands all over Oliver’s six-pick, tight pecs, and taut abs. Oliver looks like he stepped right out of a photo shoot, and Percy would love him if he were ugly, but he’s _so handsome_. His skin is a familiar space to Percy, but that doesn’t stop him from mapping it anew, every time. He touches everything as Oliver undoes Percy’s zipper, leaning in for another, sloppier kiss.

Percy’s half-lidded and meets every kiss of Oliver’s, arches into every caress, and moans at every touch. Oliver growls firmly, “You’re coming with me, next year, or I’m staying home with you.”

“Oliver,” Percy tries to reason but can’t. He tugs at the front of Oliver’s jeans, fingers both practiced and trembling. “Please...”

Oliver silences him with more kisses. Percy takes it, slipping his hand inside when he gets the front of Oliver’s jeans open. He bypasses the boxers and goes straight for skin, fingers finding Oliver already hard and waiting. Oliver’s finding the same thing. A shirtless Oliver always makes Percy hard, and a shirtless Oliver grinding into him, atop him, and making out with him, doesn’t help. Oliver bends Percy’s legs back, down to his stomach, in order to tug off his trousers. Percy lets himself be undressed like a child and pulls off his own sweater while he does it. Wearing just a shirt is silly.

He feels self-conscious when he’s naked. He always does. The lights are still on, and Oliver puts a hand on his breastbone and shoves him into the couch, sitting back up to look at him. Percy’s legs fall to either side of Oliver, faintly wrapped around his waist. Oliver wears a lazy grin and stares hungrily. Percy blushes and tries not to fidget.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Oliver says, and Percy flushes even more. He’s thin and he’s lanky and he’s got freckles all over, and he’s too pale from always working inside. He isn’t built like Oliver, and he isn’t as big, although he’s almost as long. But Oliver eyes every centimeter with unwavering attention and never seems to find fault. He’s kissed every part of Percy, and Percy’s kissed every part of Oliver. Every time Oliver leaves—for a game, or for a night out with the team, or for Christmas—Percy wonders if he’ll come back. When he inevitably does, Percy wonders _why_.

If Oliver ever didn’t, Percy would fall apart. He used to think he wouldn’t know what he’d do. Now he knows.

Oliver’s more than a boyfriend. He’s a best friend, and a partner, and a support system, and a pillow, and a sex god, and eye candy, and a star: Percy’s star. His hands trail all down Percy’s body—touching and rubbing everywhere. He only squeezes Percy’s hard cock once before slipping past it, and Percy has to resist pumping Oliver. He doesn’t want it to end too fast. He wants Oliver in him. He wants to be full. He explores Oliver’s body while Oliver slips under him, fingering his crack and probing for his entrance. When Oliver finds it, his blunt nail running along Percy’s hole, Percy moans and presses up. Oliver smiles and gently strokes the puckered ring of muscles. To Percy’s mild annoyance, Oliver mumbles again, “My parents will love you.”

Percy opens his mouth, but only gasps when a large finger pops into him, slowly and strangely. It’s always strange at first, and Percy’s muscles clench at the intrusion. Percy forces himself to relax; it’s Oliver, just Oliver. He trusts Oliver. Oliver pistons the finger in and out gently, and Percy tries to keep his eyes open. Oliver fishes in his jeans for his wand, and then lowers it to replaces his finger inside Percy—just the tip. It’s cold and oddly unforgiving. A second later, Percy feels himself stretch and fill with lube, and he bites his lip. He clenches to try and hold onto it, Oliver grumbling, “You’re so hot. I love you.”

He says it all in one breath, like he says it all the time. He does. Percy holds on tight as Oliver presses two fingers in and starts scissoring, even though he’s stretched already. Oliver’s always sure. Oliver never hurts him. Percy pants, “I love you, too...”

“Come with me next Christmas,” Oliver repeats, fingering Percy and preparing him and filling him up. The spell takes care of everything, but Oliver doesn’t pull out his fingers until he’s felt that for himself. “I won’t leave you.” The retreating fingers are quickly replaced by the spongy head of Oliver’s cock, and Percy tries to watch Oliver’s face through his glazed eyes.

Percy mutters, “I’ll ruin it,” because he ruins everything.

Oliver shakes his head. “My parents have to love you...” He rubs himself gently across Percy’s stretched entrance, getting ready and pressing slightly against it. He pops just the head in, and Percy gasps, and Oliver lowers back atop him, their bare chests sliding together. They’re both starting to sweat, and Percy holds Oliver’s arm and the hair at the back of Oliver’s head. Oliver kisses him chastely, hovering just a few centimeters above Percy’s face. “...You’re the man I’m going to marry.”

He pushes all the way inside Percy with one hard push, and Percy gasps, eyes going wide and body tensing. Oliver slides him up in the cushions, and he clutches tightly at Oliver for support, and Oliver adjusts inside him.

“Wh... what...?” Percy can barely breathe.

Oliver says, “I love you. I love you so much.” He kisses Percy’s cheek and pulls out, only to slam back in again, rocking Percy back up into the armrest. Oliver shoots a hand out in time to stop him from banging his head, but Oliver keeps going.

”Oliver!” Percy practically squeals. That wasn’t what he meant.

“You heard me,” Oliver growls, and this time he adjusts to the perfect angle, because the next thrust slams into Percy’s prostate, and he sees stars. His vision is even worse than normal, head hazy. Oliver kisses him everywhere that he can reach and hisses fiercely, “I love you, Percy Weasley. I love everything about you. I want to be with you, always.” He breaks off to groan, and the pace gets faster. It’s already so _hard._ He’s pounding into Percy like his life depends on it, and Percy’s butter, jelly, lying there, taking it. Holding on for dear life. Oliver’s so big, and fills him up so much, and the squeeze is so tight, the pressure so intense. It’s incredibly hot, and it makes Percy’s head spin. Oliver pounds him into the couch and hits that perfect spot each time, making Percy tremble in a river of needy, wanton moans. “I want to marry you. I want to make sure you’re _mine_ , and no one else can have you.”

Percy’s shivering in more than just ecstasy, so much more. He might be crying, he can’t tell. His whole face is scrunched up and he can’t control it. His muscles are tense and that only makes the burn greater, makes the pleasure more on fire. It couldn’t get any better. Or at least, Percy doesn’t think it could, until the hand that isn’t firmly stretched over Percy, keeping the armrest at bay, slides between their bodies, only to wrap around Percy’s cock. Percy’s mouth is open so wide, and it doesn’t make sense that air isn’t getting in. Oliver kisses him and kisses him, and when he pulls back, a thin trail of saliva breaks between them, and Percy’s too fucked to wipe it away. Too ravished, too wrecked. Oliver reduces him to an animal and makes him feel things he didn’t think he ever could.

Now Oliver’s ranting, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I had too much eggnog.” He sounds frantic and hoarse, all at once, just as breathless and headless. “I’m sorry.” He presses kiss after kiss into Percy’s cheek. “I should’ve waited. I got you a ring. It’s in the smallest box under the tree—I’m sorry, I couldn’t wait.”

Percy’s definitely crying. He’s too overwhelmed not to be. A part of him is upset at Oliver, and another part can’t fathom why Oliver would apologize. The second part devours the first—what could be a better time?

“If you’d’ve come to my family’s, I could proposed to you there,” Oliver growls, and now he doesn’t sound so much sad as fierce, and the sound of their slapping skin is loud in the air between his words. Percy can feel the top of Oliver’s jeans brushing at his thighs on every thrust. This time, Percy’s the first to lean up and press their lips together. It’s hard to stay up though when he’s being fucked so thoroughly, and he inevitably falls back down, and Oliver goes with him, kissing him and nipping at him and hissing, “Will you marry me, Perce? Say yes. Merlin, say yes.” He says it with such passion and fervor, as if Percy would ever say anything else.

“Yes,” Percy gasps. “Yes, yes, yes.” He holds onto Oliver, and wraps his hands around the back of Oliver’s head, and holds Oliver down against him. He looks into Oliver’s warm eyes. Oliver kisses next to Percy’s eyes, wiping away the tears. Percy’s never seen him smile wider.

When Percy comes, it’s easily the most intense orgasm of his life. The pleasure ripples through him, the bliss and the emotion, every feeling in his trembling body. It wracks through his body and makes him throw his head back and scream, “ _Oliver_!” as he explodes between them, head erupting open. His walls convulse around Oliver’s huge cock, and he spurts across their bare chests, all over Oliver’s hand. Oliver kisses him over and over and isn’t far behind.

Percy’s already satiated and spent when Oliver’s erratic thrusts milk out inside him, bursting and filling him up. He can feel Oliver’s cum painting his walls. Oliver bites down into Percy’s shoulder, humping it out. A few moments later, he collapses atop Percy, breathing just as heavily, and his bangs are slicked to his forehead with sweat.

They lay atop each other for a while, in the heady aftermath of everything wonderful.

It takes Percy a long time to come down. Oliver’s heavy, but Percy doesn’t want him to move. Oliver’s a warm blanket, keeping Percy full in every sense. Oliver’s the first to speak, and groans happily, “See, I told you I could get you to agree to anything during sex. ...And I didn’t even have to use the eggnog!”

Percy chuckles. Then he has to stop to whimper softly as Oliver rolls to the side, slipping out of him. Oliver props himself up on his elbow and reaches out to brush Percy’s bangs aside, pecking him lightly. Unable to keep away the grin, Percy mumbles, “Did you really mean it?”

Oliver nods. “Should I get the ring? ...It is Christmas, anyway, we should be opening presents...” Percy smiles and nods, and Oliver adds quickly, “By the way, you already said yes, so that sticks even if you don’t like how the ring looks.” Percy laughs, and Oliver kisses his cheek.

Oliver climbs off him awkwardly, and Percy’s too boneless to help. He lies luxuriously against the couch as Oliver passes him his glasses, then a mug of eggnog.

He watches Oliver riffle through the Christmas presents and wonders how he could ever feel lonely.


End file.
